Page 2

Veronica

T he water is everywhere.

It floods Veronica’s lungs, throat, ears, and mouth. It drags her down into the abyss, as if the pool itself has declared war on her.

Hands hold her shoulders—from firm enough to crush bones to a ghostly brush of fingers—refusing to let go. Despite the muffled sounds beneath the water, she can still distinguish each of their voices. Why won’t she? They live in a small town where everyone knows everyone, and your desk mate has a ninety-nine percent chance of being your neighbor.

“Fucking die, you freak!” The distorted threat reaches her through the ripples of raging water.

“No devil’s spawn must live amongst us!”

Even though their weight presses down on her, Veronica keeps fighting back with kicks and claws. Despite this, water saturates her completely, a heavy, stifling presence. Her chest burns, her limbs growing weaker.

Gasping desperately for air, she fears she may never have another opportunity to breathe. The kids are unwavering in their resolve. They will never let her breathe again.

They will not let her go.

Not until she is still.

Not until she is dead.

But, right as her vision darkens, the last bubble of air escaping her lips, she wakes up.

A sharp inhale rips through her, her eyes wide with horror, face flushed. With a heaving chest, her fingers curl into the soft sheet as she looks around, barely registering anything. She can swear she is still seeing the blue of the swimming pool at Paul Sabatier Elementary, the distorted form of her schoolmates over the water’s surface.

They are laughing at her.

They are cheering for her death.

Her body trembles, slick with sweat, head fuzzy, but she can feel it now—something about the air is wrong. The unfamiliar ambiance feels too sterile, the silence too thick.

She blinks, once, twice, and her surroundings finally come into focus.

A hospital?

Her pulse thrums against her ribs. What is she doing here? How did she get here?

She shifts on the bed. And that’s when she feels it—a dull sting along her wrist.

Her gaze drops to her hand, and ice splinters through her veins.

There is an IV strapped to her arm. And just below it is a bandage wrapped tightly around her wrist.

Her throat locks up.

No !

She knows this feeling too well. The slow, numbing ache beneath the gauze, the tightness of freshly closed skin.

What happened?

Blood. White tiles. A blade.

The images slam into her like a freight train. But the moment she tries to grasp them, they scatter like smoke.

Think, think, think.

She told Shiro Tanaka—her best friend—that she was done. She promised him. And indeed, a year has passed; no relapses, no fresh wounds—at least, none inflicted by her own hands. But now, with a new one blooming like an accusation against her skin, what good was all that dedication?

A tremor runs through her fingers as she traces the wound over the thick bandage. She attempts to recall the events of last night, as she can vividly remember everything leading up to that point. She remembers what happened at school in the early hours of yesterday—the event is still as clear as a film.

Fingers had pointed at her as she headed for the Principal, Mrs. Douglas’ office. There had been laughter, snickers, and whispers when she went to her locker to grab her backpack. The word slut and whore were whispered repeatedly as she walked down the hallway, out of the school, and into Shiro Tanaka’s car. She remembers coming home. At 6pm, she remembers her stepmother’s Ford Fusion charging up the driveway. And at exactly 6:05pm, the sound of a horse whip had sliced through the tensed air, tearing open the flesh on her back…and the sound didn’t stop until 6:30pm.

She can’t remember what happened after that beating. She tries harder, but all she gets is something intangible; a floor slick with something wet, the scent of iron, a harsh whisper—that sounds a lot like the voice belongs to a man—against her ear. These, and then…nothing.

Her heart keeps hammering against her chest, while cold dread slithers through her spine.

Why can’t she remember? What happened to her last night? If she did this to herself, why? What happened that pushed her to rock bottom yet again? Yesterday wasn’t the first time her stepmother would beat her to near-death. She couldn’t have tried to hurt herself because of something she already made peace with years ago.

“I see you’re back,” a voice suddenly echoes in the room, and anxiety weaves into Veronica’s ribs, a weight the size of a truck pressing on her lungs.

Her head turns reluctantly, and she sees the owner of the voice—Marlene Mendes, her stepmother.

The forty-five-year-old top detective is perched on a single couch in a shadowed corner of the room, a blind spot that blends well with her tanned skin, her brown suit, and brown pants.

“Are you disappointed?” Veronica asks, guarded eyes staring across at Marlene. “That I didn’t die?”

As she watches Marlene rise from the chair to cross the room to her, Veronica can’t help but wonder; Marlene isn’t the most fond of her. Maybe she finally snapped last night and decided to kill her?

“Disappointed?” The side of the bed dips when Marlene sits sideways on it. “Not a chance.”

There is a kind smile on her face as she hovers over Veronica. Veronica’s heart pounds; nearly ten years of cohabitation taught her those pearly whites herald malice, not amity.

“Why?” Veronica eyes Marlene with caution as the woman gently begins to stroke her bandaged wrist—so softly that she can barely feel it. “If I had died, you wouldn’t have to see me again.”

“Darling.” Marlene lifts a hand to touch Veronica’s hair gently, patting it like a loving mother will. But instead of feeling protected and loved, all Veronica feels is the cold shiver of fear. A hand stroking your head can turn to snap your neck too, you see.

“If your death would have returned everything your father stole from me, I’d have wrung your neck a long time ago, you know that.”

Confirming that it isn’t her stepmother that tried to slice off her wrist after all, vanquishes the last sliver of hope Veronica has. Their house inhabits just the two of them. Only one could’ve tried to kill the other. If Marlene didn’t try to kill her, then it only means one thing, right?

She can’t believe she relapsed again. The corners of her eyes burn. Just twenty-four hours ago, she thought she was stronger now, that her body had become an amour, a fortress of rod and iron. She believed no reality so harsh could ever penetrate through again. Maybe she was wrong. Maybe she’s still the same. Weak and pathetic.

Veronica’s pulse suddenly quickens when Marlene curls her fingers around her bandaged wrist, the pad of her thumb pressing gently over the wound. Then the weight becomes harder, a slow calculated push. Veronica’s breath catches as fire streaks up her arm, a scream threatening to claw its way out.

“Never...” Marlene’s tone is cold and cynical. “Never in your life pull such a stupid stunt again if you’re not brave enough to cut deeper, got it?”

Trapping the cry of agony in her chest, Veronica nods rapidly, tears tracking a warm path down her cheeks.

Her voice low and still vividly promising, Marlene grabs Veronica’s jaw. “Don’t ever make me put important cases on hold to attend to your pathetic, suicidal ass again, do you hear me?”

Veronica simply nods again in understanding, eager for the moment when Marlene will leave and vanish from this place.

Upon Marlene’s release, Veronica’s sharp breath fills the room.

“You were playing with the katana your friend got for you,” Marlene instructs, rising off the bed and fixing the silver button on her jacket. “That’s how you got cut. You didn’t know how to use it.”

This is the story she needs her to tell anyone who cares to ask. Because God forbid people come snooping around, wondering why the stepdaughter entrusted into her care was busy slicing off her wrist.

As Marlene heads for the exit, Veronica can’t help but follow her with her eyes to confirm when she is truly gone. And it’s only when she has pulled open the door and is about to step out that Veronica spots the bag she has been holding all along.

She recognizes that bag. It strongly resembles Shiro Tanaka’s last birthday present to her. But she doubts it’s the one. Even if it is, there’s nothing she can do. Because when she was fifteen, the very first time she tried to run away from home, Marlene had found her and brought her back;

“You belong where I belong,” Marlene had said. ‘Your life is mine now, including everything you own. ’

Because Jacob Durand—Veronica’s convict dad—ruined Marlene Mendes’s life by marrying her to cover up his psycho tendencies, Veronica, who happens to be his only child, must pay. The sins of the father, as they say, will be visited on the child. All the pretty things she owns, or will ever own, belongs to Marlene because her life does.

Veronica’s gaze falls on her wrist, which is currently throbbing as though it has a heartbeat of its own. She wonders what it was like last night when the blade cut open her skin. Did her heartbeat falter, teetering on the brink of life and death, unsure whether to persist or fade away completely?

But most of all, she wonders why she survived yet again . Is she just lucky? Or has Marlene been right all along?

‘Veronica Beaumont is good for nothing, will never be good enough to be loved by any boy other than for sex. ‘

Maybe Veronica Beaumont is so unworthy that even death keeps rejecting her.

“What?” Veronica asks before taking a bite into the burger Shiro Tanaka got for her on his way to the hospital.

Her best friend since she was fourteen has been staring at her as he sits facing her on the bed. His expression has remained unreadable. But Veronica can still see the words forming and reforming in his head.

“You said you’d never do it again,” finally, he speaks, his voice quieter than usual, blue-gray eyes losing their familiar shine.

“It was—” Veronica hesitates, as if she needs a moment to craft a believable lie. “It was a mistake.”

She returns the burger into the portable box it came in, then grabs the canned soda Shiro brought along with the burger. A deafening snap echoes as she opens the can.

“A mistake, hmm?” Shiro’s brow lifts. “Do you really expect me to believe that?”

She takes a short sip of the soda before peeling it away from her lips, her nails absentmindedly scratching at the brand name. “Yes. Or is it so hard to believe?”

“Oh, sorry,” Shiro says drily. “I’m just really having a hard time believing my suicidal friend didn’t relapse and tried to kill herself for the hundredth time?”

Veronica exhales sharply, leaning back into the pillow. Her muscles feel wrong, tense and taut. She is now more conscious than earlier, so she can feel the burn left behind by yesterday’s horse whip. She is exhausted. She just wants to rest. But she understands Shiro’s paranoia. He has been present throughout every relapse and hospital stay. It will be weird if he doesn’t suspect her at all. She used to be a repeat offender after all.

“I didn’t do it on purpose.” She struggles to hold his discerning gaze. “It was an accident with the Katana you gifted to me.”

His sharp eyes lingers, as if replaying her words in his head, searching for a lie. Veronica nearly crumbles under the weight of his stare and reveals the truth. That she didn’t come up with this excuse. Marlene simply handed her the script and expected her to play her part. But she can’t do it. She can’t tell him. Because the truth—the real truth—is something she doesn’t want to touch.

“Let’s talk about something else.” She tries to lighten the mood. “Tell me about school. Anything special happened today?”

With that, Shiro shifts uncomfortably on the bed, a flicker of hesitation passing through his expression. “Uh, nothing.” He clears his throat. “Nothing special.”

“What?” she asks, sensing it before he even says a word.

He raises a hand, scratching the back of his neck. “I didn’t mean to broadcast it. I kinda let it slip to Banks when he asked of you and somehow, the whole school knows now.”

“Knows what?” She finds her back arching off the pillow. “That I sliced my wrist with a katana?”

“That you, um, tried to kill yourself because of Ian Petrakis.” He almost winces at the odd hypothesis of the students.

Veronica’s body stiffens. “Wait. What?”

“Calm down.” He quickly grabs her hand, his eyes flickering to where her fingers clutch the sheet. “All I told Banks was that you were sick. And then he told Gerald and then Gerald being the class captain, told Mr. Simmons during Geography class and boom, the whole thing about suicide became a speculation that blew up.”

Veronica inhales slowly and exhales slower. Then she smiles. She is getting angry, so she needs to smile. Because anger does no one any good. Anger is the reason the skin on her back is currently an eyesore—lined by scars.

“So,” she takes in a shuddery breath, a wry smile touching her lips. “They think I tried to kill myself because of Ian, huh?”

Ian Petrakis, just 48hrs ago, was Veronica’s mathematics teacher…and lover.

The Greek American mathematician was transferred to Golden Creek High about five months ago. He is 27, not just the youngest teacher at school, but the most attractive.

Every girl in senior class wanted him. Even some female teachers had been caught stealing glances and shamelessly flirting.

But Ian Petrakis was a reserved man who never showed interest in anyone—until three months ago when he started to watch Veronica. At first, it was nothing. A flicker of attention. Then it turned to lingering gazes filled with unspoken yearning, fingers brushing, and shy smiles when unnoticed by others.

Nothing became something . Something quite serious. They called, they texted, and they had sex, all the time…when they were alone and the tension was charged with electricity and burning passion.

But yesterday, just before the second period, they got caught.

Miss Madison Barnes—English teacher, infatuated with Ian—caught them in a compromising position, lips locked, hip joined together… moans. It escalated like wildfire, of course, and the school board got involved.

The penalty would be quite simple. Ian Petrakis would get fired, his name blacklisted. And Veronica would get expelled.

But Marlene refused to allow Veronica to drag her precious name to the mud just like her father did. Besides, what kind of stepmother would she be if her stepdaughter were found guilty of such a disgusting accusation?

So she pulled strings. Made the pattern work in her favor. She made Veronica lie.

“Tell them he threatened you,” Marlene had whispered, her grip like an iron on Veronica’s wrist. “He used your grades against you and swore to get you kicked out of the school if you told anyone. And oh, make sure you cry a lot. You know you’re a natural at that.”

Veronica had played by the script indeed. Oh, she played it so well she could easily be handed an Oscar.

But she saw Ian’s face crumble when the scripted words left her mouth as though they were true. She watched his life collapse in front of her. Her actions wrecked his career—the only man who ever truly valued her.

Wait, could that have been the reason why she tried to kill herself again?

Did the guilt of harming Ian Petrakis prompt her suicide attempt?